Never Enough
by Ruby Casablanca
Summary: Anne thought she could move on. She thought she could work through the infatuation and the childish crush she had on Phillip Carlyle. Now, seeing him lying prone in a bed, covered in bandages and ash, because of her, made all those thoughts seem silly. If anything, this was showing her that her feelings for him were far deeper than she had been willing to admit.


Never Enough

 _You set off a dream with me. Getting louder now, can you hear it echoing?_

Anne never liked hospitals.

The smell of antiseptic, the crisp whiteness of the rooms, and the overarching sensations of death and decay never made her feel at ease. The only thing that made her feel worse was the reason why she was there in the first place.

Phillip Carlyle, with all his chivalry and good intentions, got himself trapped inside the burning circus. If it weren't for Barnum running after him, he wouldn't even be alive. Not that Anne could consider the limbo in which Phillip now slept living. With lungs filled with smoke and dust, skin pink and burned, not even the nurses could tell them whether he would make it through the night.

Despairingly, Anne threw herself into the chair at his bedside, guilt gnawing at her throat.

There was so much to make up for.

She thought she could move on. She thought she could work through the infatuation and the childish crush she had on Phillip Carlyle. She thought, in time, he would lose his charm and she would be lifted from his spell. But underneath that veneer of debauchery and pretentiousness was something that made Anne's foolish heart stutter in her chest. At first, Anne had not been sure what Phillip's intentions were: if he were actually interested in her or if he were using her as a play thing. Her brother certainly was not a fan of Carlyle's, and she would have been a fool not to be wary of the rich playwright. After all, as a pretty colored girl in a male-dominated white-washed world, she had no room to be naive.

Now, seeing him lying prone in a bed, covered in bandages and ash, because of _her,_ made all those thoughts seem silly. Insignificant. Because if anything, this was showing her that her feelings for him were far deeper than she had been willing to admit.

 _Why did you have to be such a stubborn idiot?_ she thinks as she grasps onto one guaze-wrapped hand and clutches it tight to her chest.

Tears were welling in her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Not with the nurses glaring her way and her circus family around her in a protective huddle. Not with her brother's presence looming over her like a shadow, a million prying eyes peeking into what should have been a private moment. Anne did not hesitate to let them go search for Barnum; in fact, she encouraged it. Less people to smother her, to coddle her, to ask her if she were alright or if she needed anything, as if she were the one who were lying in the bed half-dead.

In their absence, she finally lets out a shuddering breath. She brings her free hand to brush across Phillip's forehead, pushing back soot-filled hair from his eyes. Even in sleep, he is the most handsome man she's ever seen. Angelic, even.

"You said you were made to be mine...that we were going to rewrite the stars..." she says, her voice cracking on every word.

She prays they still can.

…

Phillip's parents don't come to see him.

While Anne is grateful not to have to deal with their hateful words and their bigotry, she also feels a great deal of pity for Phillip. Whether they were simply unaware of his ailment or whether they were too ashamed to visit was unknown. If she had any tears left, she would weep for him. What a cruel world they lived in that prejudice would stand above familial love.

Anne only grasps Phillip's hand tighter, forcing her weary eyes to remain open.

She would have to share love enough for the both of them.

…

That night, she has a dream.

She's outside the theater, dressed in her best gown and a hat with a large feather on top. Everyone who passes her stares, but she doesn't even notice. All she notices is Phillip approaching the box office, proudly requesting the two tickets he reserved in advance.

This time, when Phillip's parents stop them on the stairwell, she doesn't run away. This time, when they call her 'the help', she only tightens her grip on Phillip's arm and holds her head higher. Together, they ascend the stairs and leave the bigoted old couple in their dust.

She watches the most incredible show. Every second of the performance is captured by her eager eyes, and while she is captivated by what is happening on stage, Phillip is captivated by her. By her joy. By her mesmerization.

Everyone is staring again. Everyone is whispering. But the words don't reach her ears. It is as if she and Phillip are in their own world. A world where no one could touch them. A world that was entirely their own.

How tragic, she thinks, that such a beautiful world could only exist in her dreams.

...

The hours tick by too slowly.

Anne wakes up bleary-eyed some unknown hours later, bent uncomfortably over Phillip's bed. Everything is stiff. Everything is sore. And Phillip is still asleep.

She could scream.

This is torture of the worst kind. Every minute she sits with bated breath waiting for some kind of sign that Phillip is alive and well. He lies too still in the bed, like a statue. She can barely see his chest rise and fall, and has to fight the urge to lay her head over his heart just to make sure it is still beating.

Anne is not vain enough to think it beats for her. She has no claim over his heart, not since she walked away from him in the middle of an empty stage. He had brandished his fragile, unsteady heart in his hands and trusted it to her for safe keeping. Only she chose to stomp on it instead. If she could go back - _oh, if she could rewrite the stars_ \- she would do things differently. She would not walk away. She would be stronger. She would be braver. For him. For them.

There were so many things she wanted to say. She hopes she will get the chance to say them.

"Wake up," she pleads in a choked whisper. "It's not enough. We've only just begun...I'm not ready to say goodbye."

Phillip remains silent.

...

A few hours later, a miracle happens.

She hasn't eaten. She hasn't had any water. She hasn't brushed her hair or changed her soiled clothes. Lord only knows she must look like a complete and utter mess. Yet, Phillip wakes and stares up at her with those beautiful, sparkling blue eyes as if she were the most exquisite creature he has ever seen.

 _Oh, how she has missed those eyes!_

It is like time has stopped, just as it did the first time she laid eyes on him mid-air, and her brain lets go of every little worry she has harbored for the past few hours. Instead, she acts on impulse, reaching down to place her lips upon his. The nurses gasp audibly, but she does not care. She is too relieved, too overjoyed to have Phillip back, and he is just as happy to see her unharmed. He wandered into a fire thinking she was trapped in the blaze; he lost consciousness before finding out if she was safe. His hands tremble as they brush across her skin, calloused thumbs reaching to cup her cheeks as if she is some cherished thing.

He leans up to kiss her again, full of affirmation and need. She leans down to meet him so that he does not injure himself in the strain. Besides, it feels good to lie down. To fall further and further into his embrace until she was lying next to Phillip on the bed, curled into his side. Careful not to bump or bruise the sensitive skin, she tucks herself under his arm, one hand around his waist, ear positioned over the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of his heart. In that moment, it is the most melodious sound she has ever heard.

No one comes to untangle them. No one dares try. Even the cynics of the world would allow them their moment of reprieve, their moment of healing.

Damn what everyone else thinks. All that matters now is the two of them, together, chasing their dreams for as long as time would allow.

Nothing was going to tear them apart again; of that, Anne was certain.


End file.
